A Test For Survival
by xXx Dr. John Watson xXx
Summary: John was tired of it. So tired of Sherlock and his ways of talking to him, and he wishes to just get away. To bad his wish will come true when Moriarty decides to kidnap him. Now with no hope and no way of escaping, John is forced to fight for his life, even if there is no chance of ever living through his ordeal.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone ! I am new to the Sherlock fandom and I am in love. I finally know all the hype about Benedict and Martin. My goodness! I love them both so much! So adorable. Also, I ship them so hard. They are so perfect for each other that it drives me crazy! In this story you will experience possible heartbreak, hurt, and very suspenseful cliffhangers. It is my first Sherlock fanfic and I hope you enjoy. Also, this is not a slashy story, just one filled with friendship.**

**There will be lots of moments of hatred toward a particular character but I will let you see who it is. Please enjoy because the game is on!**

**Disclaimer- I DO NOT IN ANY SHAPE OR FORM OWN SHERLOCK OR ANYTHING IN THAT MATTER. **

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Dim lights illuminated the little flat of 221 B. Everything in the apartment stood still, unmoving in the darkened light. There was the glow of the television, but no sound came from it. There was no need anymore. He grew too bored of shows and movies that came on, what with being constant reruns. The only thing was a screen playing some sort of show with the big 'MUTE' in the corner.

An empty bowl of milk and cereal was on the counter with a spoon snubbed on the side lolling lazily in the bowl. He had grown to lazy to even stand up to bring it to the sink. You couldn't blame him though. After constantly picking up around the house after his flat mate he grew tired of doing things. Even if it was for himself.

John ran a hand through his thick blonde hair and laid his head back on the sofa. He closed his eyes for a minute and relaxed his tensed muscles. He made the wrong choice today. He was bored. John bored! Yes, he was used to that life of his before his time in Afghanistan and especially before he met Sherlock. A life filled with nothingness and things that everyday people would do.

To say that his life was normal was a lie. His life was far from normal. Especially his life living with Sherlock. Sometimes he couldn't stand him. And that was exactly why he didn't go with him on this very particular day.

Sherlock was as ignorant and blunt as it came, but lately, Sherlock was different. He wasn't the Sherlock that John _knew._ He changed and not exactly for the better. He was worse. Every chance he got, Sherlock would put in a comment or mock that John knew was aimed at him. His own friend, even if he opted to call him that, was treating him like the scum underneath his shoes.

But now, now John was wondering if he made the right choice to stay at home. He wasn't exactly the home body he used to be. He actually enjoyed helping Sherlock and Lestrade. They were the only people that grew to accept him when he was alone.

Then there was the fact that Sherlock never bothered to inform him on the homicide hw was currently working on. In fact, John had called himself and Sherlock hung up on him right in the middle of him talking. At that action, John had had enough of his nonsense.

John brought his head back up and opened his eyes catching a glimpse of the television. At that very moment the door to the flat opened with a swing. In walked the very man he was not so fond of at the moment, in his usual garb of his coat and blue scarf.

"John." he said simply and plopped down on the couch across from him. He put his head in his hands.

John stared at him and knew that even though Sherlock was looking right at him he really couldn't see him. Once again Sherlock was lost in some thought of his where he couldn't be brought out of.

But finally he had had enough. He was tired of the geniuses constant ignorance toward him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't move or flinch. He sat as still as stone on the couch. John went forward and tapped him on the shoulder. Not a light tap but not hard either. Just hard enough to bring him out of his state of mind.

"Sherlock?" John wanted to talk now. Still no answer.

He went to tap him again when a hand smacked at his roughly. John stared at him and smirked.

"Whatever it is it can wait Jawn."

"No. No it can't"

Sherlock removed his hands from underneath his chin and rested his gaze on John who looked like he was about to explode. He smiled lightly. Emotion. It was the very thing that he loved to avoid. To bad John wasn't devoid of it, for if he was, he wouldn't be pestering him right now.

"I am sure it is nothing of importance. It _can_ and will wait."

John huffed in frustration. "Why can't you just listen to me?! This silly case of yours can wait for a moment."

Sherlock stood then and his eyes left John which made his blood boil to it's extreme. "If it has anything to do with your petty human emotions than it can. I have no time to ponder of ludacris things like that. I have a case John."

John stood than too and was completely taken back. He crossed the line. This wasn't a game to him anymore. It never was and certainly wasn't now.

"Do you hear yourself Sherlock? Listen to how your talking to your friend!"

Sherlock laughed a deep laugh and put his hands in the air. He whirled around to John and smiled. "I have no friends!"

"Yeah you've said that before." John hissed at him his eyes full of rage.

Sherlock went up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. He pulled him closer in his smile now gone. His face was empty and no emotion shown what so ever. John didn't fight the hold he let Sherlock bring him in close until their noses were inches apart.

"Listen closely John," he began low, "I. Have. No. Friends. Don't be fooled and think that I am someone you can call a _friend._"

John let him finish and he wish he hadn't. That was a low blow even for Sherlock. He wiggled out of his hold and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes, his green melting into his blue. Then without warning, John fisted his hand tightly and swung with everything he had at Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock hit the floor fast, and he brought his hand to his burning cheek.

John went to the counter grabbing his mobile and stuffed it into his jean pocket along with his keys to the flat.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock questioned and began to stand.

John went to the coat hanger in the corner and grabbed angrily at his jacket and stuffed both of his arms into the coat. He looked at Sherlock, his eyes wanting desperately to release the tears of betrayal, but he fought them back.

"Why do you care?" John said harshly and turned from Sherlock, slamming the door shut.

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**Tell me what you think so far. Did you enjoy it so far. There are many chapters to come, and uh ahem the next chapter is when everything really starts. To be safe this is rated K+ because of some things that are coming soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello fellow Sherlockians! I wish all is well and on the up and up! I want to first thank you all who have taken the time to read and review this story. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that means to me to have you read this. I cannot wait to share what I have in store for you all. Also, any input that you wish to share with me, please feel free to tell me. Anything is appreciated. But most of all, thank you so much fro everything so far. I am extremely happy with everyone right now!**

**Also, I will not be able to post for a little bit since I am going away. I will post as soon as I can and hope to see you all again very very soon.**

**Sooooooooo without further ado here is chapter 2! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Sherlock!**

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John walked down the stairs from the flat, his heart racing out of control, his mind buzzing with harmful and unimaginable things that he wanted ever so much to shout at Sherlock. He had had enough. He was done with Sherlock and all the shit he put him through. Finished!

All he needed right now was a walk. A long walk that he didn't want to come back from for hours, just so his _friend_ could see how serious he was. That was as if he could even call Sherlock a friend. Yes, John knew from when they were after the so called hound in Baskerville that Sherlock was just wacked out of his mind then, and he forgave him for the slip up. But now, now was different.

Sherlock meant it. He really didn't consider John a friend at all. For some odd reason it struck a nerve with him. When he said that, John felt like his heart was ripped out of his chest, tramped on by murderous feet, and thrown back beaten and unable to work anymore. A dull ache in his heart was now all he felt.

John knew what it felt like to be alone. What with his family life, being practically nonexistent. Sometimes he considered Ms. Hudson and Sherlock his family. They were all he had. And Sherlock saying what he had moments ago only made John sink further into sadness than he had been in before.

John continued to walk, now out of his apartment and on the streets. The sun was already beginning to set. The beautiful colors of reds, oranges, and pinks danced across the sky before him almost as if to say everything would be alright again. But John knew different. This was Sherlock. He wasn't like...other people.

He looked out on the street before him, stretched out like a big never ending road. There was nobody out. Maybe a few people here and there, but other than that, absolutely no one. John found that odd. A beautiful day like this, everyone should be out. John shrugged his shoulders. Maybe he was the only one who actually wanted to admire this weather.

John smiled slightly and shoved both of his hands in his pockets. At least it was nice enough to have a decent walk alone. It could give him time to think.

He went on, knowing exactly where he was going to when the phone shoved down in his front pocket buzzed. He took it out and rolled his eyes.

_Where are you?- SH_

John tugged at his jacket securing it around his tiny shoulders. He fingers pressed lightly against the keypad.

_Leave me alone.-JW_

Not even five seconds later his phone went off again. John sighed loudly and looked again.

_You shouldn't be out on your own.-SH_

_Why do you care?-JW_

No reply. John smirked at his phone. Not an answer. Oh Sherlock, he were so predictable. Can't even admit for once that he was wrong. His phone went off again.

_Just come home.-SH_

John didn't answer. Instead he shoved the phone back into his pocket. He didn't want to argue with him anymore. By the time the sun had set John reached his destination. He sat himself down on the nearest bench in the park. There were rows of lamps already lit in his favor. He could see the path as far as his eye could see. That was good.

He sat there for who knows how long. He sat and listened to the sound of the crickets chirping their legs together and the sound of geese wading in the pond before him. This was nice. He was finally relaxed. Not completely but relaxed enough to just forget why he was mad in the first place.

John looked at the clock on his phone. "Wow!" he said aloud to himself. It was already nine. He had to be back soon. Slowly he stood stretching his arms and legs. He was probably there for close to two hours. He was glad that he decided to just get away for once on his own.

He walked the lit path of the park until it led him to the streets. There was still light there but it was scattered on each block. It wasn't like there were dark patches he had to walk through or anything, there was even light spread throughout. He just preferred more light. John pulled the collar of his coat close to his neck and shoved his hands in his pockets.

John went on, walking two, three, four blocks. There was nobody out now. The occasional car passed by but that was all.

He went on keeping his senses sharpened at the slightest noise or anything that he found unusual. But he was soldier. He was always keen to anything suspicious. That was when he caught something. Something out of the ordinary. He heard footsteps. Not just one, but two. And they were walking fast.

John turned abruptly. He found no one. Not a soul was out. Maybe his imagination playing tricks on him? Maybe. But he didn't want to take any chances. John turned and walked faster. He turned the corner of the street and then he heard it again. The same heavy footsteps behind him.

He didn't stop this time and kept walking. Then they got faster. John still didn't stop, but he glanced over his shoulder. And sure enough he was right. Not far behind him were two men, their faces shadowed, walking fast toward him.

As if by instinct John began to run. As soon as he did he heard the feet behind him race behind him, but he was faster. Ha! The advantages of being short!

John ran as fast as his legs could take him. He found an open alley and ran in and hid behind a dumpster. He was breathing heavily and clamped his hands over his mouth so the two men couldn't hear his ragged breathing.

He waited anxiously as the two men who had chased him ran past the alley full speed. John removed one hand from his mouth and searched for his phone. Subconsciously he dialed Sherlock's number. One, two, three, four rings.

"John?" Sherlock answered his phone, "I hope this is an apology for hitting me."

John uncovered his mouth fully and breathed.

"John?"

"Sherlock," John whispered into the phone, "there are people following me."

Silence. Nothing but static on his end.

"Sherlock?" his voice crack as he said his name, "Please."

"Where are you?"

"About three blocks from the flat, please Sherlock."

On the other end he could hear Sherlock slipping on his coat and already heading for the door. "Keep talking to me John. I'm coming."

"Okay." John whispered and crept his head over the dumpster, "I think their gone Sherlock."

"Just stay hidden okay?"

John breathed silently to himself. He just had to breathe. That was when he heard them again. The pair of feet.

"Sherlock," he began, "please hurry! I think they are coming ba-" and that was when John was completely cut off. A leathered hand went over his mouth muffling his cries.

"John? John!" was what John heard as he fought against the force behind him.

He tried to scream but his attempts were muffled by the hand covering his mouth. He fought with his arms and legs against the person restraining his movements. An arm then went and wrapped around both of his arms and pinned them to his sides. John was then picked up from the ground and hauled off through the alley.

John tried biting the hand but only found the hand apply more pressure. He wriggled his arms uselessly as he was carried further and further away. Wait! His legs were still free! He swiftly kicked his foot backward and found the tender area of his attacker and was immediately dropped from his grasp.

John fell to the ground and gasped for air. He had to get away now. John got to his feet and ran down the street, yelling for attention. He had to get someone's attention.

"Help! Somebody please he-" and he was cut off once more as he was knocked over on the pavement. His head hit the sidewalk, rendering his world to spin. John felt hands on him and he spun over ignoring the spinning and started to swing blindly.

He punched and thrashed at the hands trying to restrain him. Then the person above him grabbed him by the throat increasingly tight and squeezed. John fought against the hands, but could feel himself quickly loosing consciousness. He fought and fought to no avail. And just before he was about to pass out the attackers brought John's ear close to his mouth.

"Nighty night Johnny boy." was whispered into his ear. Before John could do anything else, his head was violently slammed into the concrete. He saw black and white dots dance across his eyes, his head was spinning. He wanted so much to fight it, but soon the never ending darkness won over him, and he fell limp to the ground unconscious.

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**Well, well, well. This is just the beginning. I hope everyone enjoyed. The games begin very soon. Stay tuned if you want to see what happens to John and what Sherlock will do. Until next time, this is Dr. Watson's Girl bidding you all a very fond farewell.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! I am back and with another chapter. I just got back and all the stuff I needed to get done is now officially done. Thank you all for being so patient with me and waiting. I hope all of you are swell and ready for another chapter. This is where it really begins I promise. Thank you again to all who have read, followed, liked, and reviewed this story. It really means a lot to me. **

**So here we go. Chapter 3! **

**Disclaimer- I don't own Sherlock!**

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His mind floated in empty space. He couldn't hear anything but silence. The silence was defeaning. Ringing in his ears making him extremely uncomfortable. The last thing he remembered was being outside. Wait there was more. There was definitely more! But why couldn't he remember?

He didn't even know what had happened. For one minute he was outside walking, minding his own business than...nothing. Wait. No. Sherlock. They fought. He remembered that, and then he left. But then what?

John thought hard fighting into his sub cranium wanting to know every last detail. But god it hurt so much. No matter the pain in his head he fought. He was in the park then left. He knew he was followed so he called Sherlock.

_"John? John!"_

He could recall the panicked voice of Sherlock on his phone. The last words he heard him say. But that was all he could remember.

And all John knew was that his head hurt badly. God it throbbed and ached to no end. It felt like his head was hit by a jackhammer and run over twice. John went to relieve his throbbing head with his hands but found that they wouldn't move. He tried to move them desperately but they would not budge for all the effort he put into it.

John then willed himself to open his eyes once again. Concentrating deeply, he slowly opened each of his eyes. He was greeted with dimmed lights on the ceiling. His eyes at first blurred at the edges. Everything around him was smudged out making his efforts to see exactly where he was futile. He blinked a couple of times to let them focus.

The first thing he noticed was why he couldn't move.

Both of his wrists and ankles were tied down to a wooden arm-chair that he was in. John wiggled and thrashed his arms helplessly, trying to loosen the ropes a little, only for them to dig deeper into his skin.

He squirmed more, not letting up on the force on his wrists. He pulled so hard, that he could see red lines underneath the ropes and a trickle of blood coming through the ropes.

"Breathe. Just breathe!" he said to himself his voice a low whisper. By the looks of the place he was in, some sort of basement or warehouse, he was alone. That is, he was alone for now.

That was when he heard a door open. John jumped nearly out of his skin, and his heart beat faster. So fast it felt as if it would thump right out of his chest. He heard light footsteps coming onto each stair and with each he felt his heart grow in his throat.

He watched intently at the stairs, now realizing that he was in fact in a basement. Then he saw the figure coming down the stairs slowly, his silhouette invisible to him from where he was. John watched as he made it to the bottom of the stairs and eased himself over to the wall closets him.

John squinted trying to see who it really was, to see who this captor. By what he could tell, this was definitely a man. Medium height, short hair, and thin.

"It's about time you woke up." said the figure soothingly.

John tried to calm himself of his nerves. He was feeling so much right now. Fear, confusion, desperation, and most of all, vulnerable. What was going to happen to him? Wait a minute! He knew that voice.

John looked at the figure and stopped his struggling. He heard an airy laugh come from the figure and cringed at the sound. It sounded too relaxed for his taste. He could visibly see the cold hardened black eyes of his captors shine through the dim light back at him.

The man crossed his arms over his chest, "What's wrong Johnny boy? Haven't figured it out yet? Ah! Probably the nasty bump to your head is making you a bit slower than usual."

Before John could even answer or question, the lights were flicked on. He closed his eyes at the abrupt brightness that blinded him. His brain pounded against his skull feeling as though it was trying to break through his head.

Once he opened them again, slowly but surely, John glared back at his captor. He knew who it was. He kept his face straight as he stared down to man before him, dressed as he usually did. A nice suit and tie as usual, his hair slicked back, dark eyes that pierced the very soul, and a grim smile that chilled the air.

"Moriarty." John simply said, acid on his tongue as his name made it from his mouth.

Jim waltzed over to John standing before him and smiled devishly. John felt uncomfortable by this and looked away slightly but still tried to keep his bearings.

"The one and only. Nice to see you again Johnny." Jim said in a sing song tune, " how is Sherlock's little pet?"

John snarled at the name. He always hated that. Right now all he wanted was to be free of his bindings and tear this man apart. But all he could do was glare up at him. From this angle Moriarty was much bigger than he was. Probably to make him look even more menacing to John if that was even possible. John knew Moriarty was a dangerous man. Not only from the time he strapped a bomb to him but on various other occasions also.

"Well?" Moriarty asked, a twinge of frustration lacing his voice.

"Come on!" he yelled this time and slapped John across the face hard. The smack was so hard that his head snapped harshly to the side. He closed his eyes wanting to make to sting disappear. It didn't hurt that much. John had been through much worse before.

John turned back to him and continued his poker face stare.

Moriarty lifted his hand again threatening to strike him. All John could do was hold his breath and wait for the impact. But, it never came.

Moriarty looked teasingly at John and traced his fingers through his hair. John backed up the best he could without tipping his chair.

"Don't be so testy pet!" Moriarty chuckled darkly.

John dodged his head out from under his touch. "Get your filthy hands off me you bastard!"

Jim put his hands in the air as if in surrender and laughed. "Are we beginning with the attitude already Johnny? Hmmmmm!"

Moriarty groaned and backed away from John just enough so he was still standing in front of him and he could get a clear look at him.

His dark eyes fixed on him, smile now gone and all humor left his face. "Let's begin shall we?"

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**Tell me what you think. I hope you enjoyed. See what happens next time. Until then this is Dr. Watson's Girl signing off. XD**


	4. Chapter 4

**Helllllloooooo my fellow fanfictioneers! It is now Friday, the sun in shining and the air is cool...wait...the air is cold! Why is it cold! It's summer for crying out loud! Hahaha! Whatever. Sorry about the rambling. A little thing I do now and again. **

**About the story, yes I am continuing, but I would like to apologize. I have been increasingly busy lately and it has been extremely difficult to post a new chapter. I know that in the future it will be harder too, but I will find any time I can and post. I promise.**

**So without any more distractions, I will start the story.**

**Disclaimer_ I don't own Sherlock or any part of the BBC show.**

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John didn't move. As if he actually could. Right now his limbs were petrified. But no, he couldn't break. Not now. Not in front of him. There was no way that he was going to give Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Besides, John had been in hostage situation before in Afghanistan. He was rescued immediately. A few bumps and bruises after his ordeal, and it did take a day or two for his deliverance, but this time was different.

John had Sherlock. The greatest mind of the century. His friend. Sherlock had to be searching for him by now. And in no time Sherlock would barge in the door and get him out.

John was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice that Moriarty had pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of him. His face was perched in his hands, eyes searching his very core, looking right into his soul.

_Don't let him break you. That's what he wants. _he thought to himself.

Jim had a smug smile spread across his lips. A look filled with happiness and great excitement. The type of face you would get from a child walking into a candy story. That was Moriarty's face, and all John wanted to do was smack the living shit out of it.

"People like you, god! So interesting?" Moriarty teased and showed his teeth.

"People like me? What on earth could you possibly mean?" he had to stall him.

Moriarty's smile grew wider if that was even a possibility. It took up his whole face. John thought that if it got any bigger it could swallow him whole. Moriarty once again put his hands in John's hair. He played with it a little with his fingers.

"I got Sherlock's pet to talk!"

He fingered his hair toyingly. "Tell me Johnny. What is it like in your little brain? What things do you think of when you are ignoring me?"

John didn't answer, but instead tried to get away from him again. "Get your bloody hands off me!" he said dangerously low, succeeding in sounding stronger than he felt.

"But why? This is fun." Moriarty said and moved his hands now to John's face. He traced his fingers against his jaw line and his fingers went to trace his lips. Big mistake. John saw the opportunity and took ahold of his fingers within his teeth. He bit down hard and tasted Moriarty's blood.

Moriarty struggled against John but didn't make a sound. He pulled at John's iron grip until he got every one of them free from John's gnawing teeth. Once his fingers were free he examined them and tisked disappointingly at John. Blood dripped from his four fingers plopping silently to the cement floor.

That was when Moriarty swung his bloodied hand at John, punching square across the cheek. The force of the blow caused John's head to swing violently to the side. He could taste the blood pooling in his mouth. His blood. The force of the hit made him bite down on his tongue. There was a small split in his cheek from the ring Moriarty had on his finger, that too was dribbling blood but not bad. Only a minor cut.

"See what you made me do?" Moriarty said in a cheerful tune that made John's stomach churn. He spit the blood out of his mouth only for it to fill up again causing him to spit it out once more.

"I told you Johnny-boy, I hate getting my hands dirty." he smirk stayed as he glowered down at John. His chin dribbled blood from his bleeding mouth and onto his light blue shirt. "But this is a special occasion. It's not everyday that I have Sherlock's heart in front of me."

"What?" John asked through blood stained teeth.

Moriarty looked at each and every one of his fingers that he had chewed on and then at John. He practically drooled over John's spilt blood. To Jim, this was only things he saw in his dreams. Sherlock's only faithful friend helpless and at his mercy.

"You know, sometimes I wonder why he keeps you around. I think I see why now. You're a fighter Johnny. I like that." Jim wiped his hands across John's chin and admired his blood now on his hands. John stared at him in disgust.

"You're insane!" John grimaced.

Moriarty ignored him and took a pocket cloth from his pocket. He neatly wiped the blood from his hand as if it was nothing at all. Once he finished he tucked back into his pocket and circled John's chair.

"I do wonder how Shirley is holding up right now?"

That snapped John out of his controlled state. He thrashed against the ropes restraining him. "What have you done to Sherlock?"

Moriarty laughed lightly and stopped his stalk in-front of John. "Calm down pet. Sherlock is safe. "

That made John calm down a little. Knowing that Sherlock was still okay made him a little more at ease, although it didn't help him in his situation. He was still kidnapped by a lunatic probably hell bent on causing him as much pain as physically possible.

"So," John said as evenly as he could, "why did you kidnap me?"

"I wanted to see what it was like to have a living one. And I thought to myself, why not Sherlock's little pet. And then I thought I wanted an ordinary person in another one of my games." Moriarty caressed John's bloodied cheek.

"Fuck off!" John broke his silence.

Moriarty seemed pleased by his outburst. That was exactly what he wanted.

"Good! Some reaction out of you. I like it. But I think I like your little soldier facade better. It suits you very well. Too bad I'll have to see it fall very soon."

"You'll never break me." John informed, his jaw set straight, his eyes hard.

"We'll see about that Johnny-boy. Now, how about we get this game started shall we?"

Moriarty reached into his pocket and brought out his phone in one hand and a strip of cloth in his other. He set his phone down and held the cloth in both hands. He advanced at John and went behind him.

"But how about we keep the bad words to a minimum?"

He smiled as he rolled up the white cloth in his hands and knotted it snuggly around John's mouth.

John struggled against him as it was brought in between his teeth and expertly tied at the back of his head, silencing him. He huffed angrily and stared daggers at Moriarty when he came to stand before him again.

"There you go. Nice and snug" he patted John's cheek lightly and then once more with a smack.

Moriarty bent down and reached for his phone. He flipped it open pressing a couple of keys and aimed the phone directly at John. "Come on John." he said smoothly, "let's give Sherlock a little incentive shall we?"

"Hmrph phlar." John snarled as it was muffled through his gag.

"What? I didn't quit catch that." he put his hand to his ear, "You have to use clearer words, dear."

John fought against the ropes once more and glared angrily at the phone.

Moriarty put the phone down and put his hands together. He went up to John and held his face. He squeezed his cheeks with his hand and brought John's face dangerously close to his. John wanted nothing more than to be as far away from this man.

Then he felt it. The pain. John gasped for air that never reached his lungs. Jim took the pocket knife he hid and dug it into John's bare arm.

John heaved for air. God he wanted to scream, but he kept it hidden. Moriarty let go of his face abruptly and went back to where he was.

John felt pain. The knife was still imbedded in his skin. The sick bastard! He wouldn't break though. He wouldn't let himself. The knife was just sitting there, the blade fully in his arm, blood running from the broken skin. Already his blood was rolling off his skin and onto the cement beneath him.

"Now," Moriarty said, phone in hand pointed at John, and John looked up, "smile for the camera Johnny. We want Sherlock to see this."

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**Well...what did you think? I hope this keeps you on the edge of your seat. You will never know what happens next, I assure you that. I hope you enjoyed it.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi everyone. My deepest apologies to all of you. Usually I am really good at updating as soon as possible. Mainly I updated on a weekly basis, but now life is just catching up with me. I just started college and it is taking a little longer for me to get adjusted than I would like it to take. I have also been working a ton of hours the past couple of weeks rendering me unable to really have any social life at all. **

**But I am extremely sorry for making you all wait. Kinda like how BBC is making us wait for Sherlock season 3. I hope this was well waited for. Please enjoy the next installment of this story. I hope you like it. **

**Disclaimer- I OWN NOTHING! NADA! ZILCH!**

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The phone lay in his pocket. Now and then his fingers would rummage through his pockets just to thumb the phone to make sure of its' existence. It was a reminder. As if he needed one to begin with. He knew what had happened, and he certainly didn't need something as miniscule as a phone to remind him of what his surroundings beheld.

Sherlock stood at his window. His mind running wild through tunnels of thought. Last night. Almost twelve hours ago. That is exactly when this happened. All this silly nonsense that made this predicament reality.

He had already phoned Lestrade, telling him all he could muster up at that point. Lestrade at first was sure it was John's attempts to make Sherlock become more, how do you say, human, but after the unforgiving evidence, Lestrade was finally under the influence that John was in fact kidnapped. All he knew was that he had this phone. _John's_ phone. It was his and now in Sherlock's pocket.

Sherlock remembered the shaky voice of John on the phone. He sounded as though his heart was in his throat. There was no hiding John's fear no matter how hard he masked it from Sherlock. Sherlock knew how John was. He never got frightened easily. Never. Something last night was most definitely different.

"Just stay hidden, okay?"

and him calling for John was the last thing he said to him before, poof!, he vanished. Gone like the wind, no traces left behind. Except for one minor thing. His mobile phone. Clearly while he was calling for John, he could hear on the other end signs of a struggle. He heard muffled yells and the pounding of fists connecting to skin, but nothing more. Not until he heard John start screaming for help. Any help at all.

The last he saw of John was a face filled with hurt and betrayal. It was clearly written on his face. It didn't take much for Sherlock to see that. The last words he heard him say were desperate. _"Help! Somebody please he-"_ Then nothing. The struggle ended there. Sherlock knew it. John's thrashing and fighting off the inevitable were ended.

Once again, Sherlock shoved his hand down his pocket and thumbed the phone. He traced the contours of the phone and slowly brought it out this time. Scratches on the phone. Fresh ones at that. Obviously from the night before.

He dropped the phone when his attacker came from behind and surprised him. A large crack running down the center signified John was standing at the time. His attacker was taller than John was no doubt.

But who? Why was John abruptly taken? Who had kidnapped John?

It was all John's fault to begin with. If it wasn't for his _emotions _he wouldn't be in this situation. If he had just stayed in the flat he would be here right now. And- NO!

"God John!" Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, digging his nails into his scalp. Who was he kidding? This was all his fault. Not John's. Maybe if he just listened to John and let him vent maybe just maybe he wouldn't have walked out.

But still, it wasn't like Sherlock wasted any time in going out to get him when he called. Sherlock ran out the door for him. He ran so fast keeping the phone nuzzled closely to his ear, listening in on John's battle to get away from whoever was after him. As soon as he got there, nothing. No evidence. None at all. Usually, no not usually, always, there were always clues. But not this time. There was nothing. No evidence of a struggle. No traces left behind. Only John's lonely phone lying cracked and scuffed on the ground. That was all.

There was absolutely nothing for Sherlock to go off on. He didn't hear any other voices besides John's on the phone.

Sherlock went over to his chair and sat down with a mighty plop. Why? Why of all of his cases was this the one that had no leads? Nothing? Sherlock sat the phone on the arm rest and stared restlessly at it as if the answer was written on the phone. But it wasn't. There was utterly no answer on that phone and he knew it.

For all he knew John was dead. But no, that wasn't a possibility. Whoever kidnapped John wanted a fair shot on his end. No traces or evidence to this crime. At least that is what he hoped.

Lestrade for what he knew was on the case as he spoke, speaking to every person he knew. He on the other hand, thought on and on to no end. Whom ever did this was really good at this. Puzzles like this never came by too often anymore.

They were always one in a million but when they came around they were tough. Even the tiniest of puzzles though always had a loophole in them though. This puzzle though had none. That was the game changer.

Wait a minute! Puzzle? Game changer? It couldn't be. But it only made sense. Why would he think those things? It was the only logical answer. But how?

Sherlock stood then, forgetting the phone behind him. He stood where he was before, looking out the window at nothing. Wherever John was right now, he knew two things. One, he was definitely kidnapped. There was no doubt about that. And two, John is stuck in the middle of this game of cat and mouse.

Sherlock was so stuck in thought that he barely noticed the buzzing of the phone. It hummed softly against the fabric of the sofa, the light on the screen a dull shadow due to the crack in the center. His eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. He went to his phone and brought it up eye level. A little yellow envelope was on the screen.

A text. There was a number he didn't know on it. Ever so slowly Sherlock unlocked the screen to the envelope. In it was a small note.

_Not all fairytales have happy endings._

_Jim Moriartyx_

Sherlock kept calm at all costs. He couldn't lose his cool. Not yet. Missing something? Moriarty obviously. He knew it.

Without any hesitation Sherlock clicked lightly on the tiny plus sign and it loaded. Sherlock kept the screen to his face so he could see clearly. It loaded quickly and revealed itself to Sherlock.

As it came up, Sherlock held his breath. He didn't want to see this. Any other time he would see something like this, it was just a picture and he knew where to go off on it, but this, this was different. No. This was personal. Sherlock didn't want to look at the screen, but his eyes kept going back to the picture.

"John." he ran his finger of the picture that popped up onto the phone.

On the screen was none other than John. He was looking away from the camera slightly. His body language said it all; filled with pain, confusion, fear, and undoubtful determination. John was bound to a chair and gagged. Out of his arm stuck a pocket knife, and clearly there was blood clinging to his skin.

The image burned itself into Sherlock's brain.

Sherlock closed the phone wanting so much get the new image of John out of his head, but that was all he saw. No matter how he didn't want to see him like that, he couldn't imagine John any other way than he was now. Vulnerable, bound to a chair, and at the mercy of Moriarty. He had to get John and fast. He knew Moriarty was a dangerous man to begin with and knowing Sherlock was even more dangerous for John. But there was still one problem. Even in the picture of John there was nothing. No clues as to where he was.

Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket and headed for the door, putting his coat on during the process.

"I will find you. I promise. If it is the last thing I do, I will find you." and with that, Sherlock ran out of his flat.

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**What did you think? Good? Bad? I hope the wait was well worth it, and you enjoyed it.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello all. Here is another chapter of the story. I hope you all enjoyed the last chapter I added. I have been working hard at getting life in order, but every time I try, another thing is added. So, needless to say, it got a little harder this time to add the addition to this story. But hey, at least I got one up.**

**But to be completely honest, I have no idea what to say. Also, I haven't been having a great couple of weeks, so...yeah. Sorry again about the late chapter. Whenever I get to it, I will type and post the next chapter.**

**Disclaimer-I never have and nor will I ever own anything pertaining to Sherlock.**

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_Plop! _

_Plop!_

_Plop!_

_Plop!_

There was a constant irritating sound of water dropping to the dampened ground. The musty smell of mildew penetrated through the air, making it uncomfortable to breath in the air. There was no way of telling the time, or how long time had passed since everything had begun.

The light that once shone through the little rectangle of a window was now completely darkened. That at least was a sign that it was night outside. That was all he knew. The time, well that was a complete mystery.

Not a single light bounced off the walls that surrounded him. The sun had set, as if it was giving up on him for the day, leaving him literally in the dark. The only light he got was from a dim lamp that stood in the corner of the room. That's if he could even call it a room. It looked like a damn dungeon if it was up to him.

But overall, the silence was defeaning. John didn't know how long he had been down there, but it felt like days. He well knew it had only been a few hours, but spending time all alone, tied up in a basement felt like ages.

John gave up a long time ago trying to undo the incredibly tight knots that ensurfaced his wrists. Not that he gave up his desperate struggles right after Mortiarty had left. No, he kept on his attempts until he no longer could.

All his trying to break free all ended in failure . It seemed like every time he pulled at the ropes, they only grew stronger and tighter. It was as if they were alive, keeping a death grip on his hands, ordering him to stay put and never escape.

John looked down at his wrists. His hands were torn, the skin rubbed away and bleeding. Dried blood caked his arms and clung to his wrists. They were raw and still bleeding and hurt like hell. The knife that at one time was in his arm, was now gone.

Moriarty yanked at the bloodied knife after swirling the seraded weapon around his arm, while it was still imbedded in his arm. The hole in his arm was now at least the size of his fist. It finally stopped bleeding a little while ago, but god! It was tortorous. The burning feeling of the knife being slowly turned into his skin, making the hole in his arm bigger and bigger until tears started to fall from his eyes. John could remember the clear look of satisfaction on Moriarty's face at that.

John then thought of Sherlock. The look on his face when he saw the picture of him already wounded. How he reacted when he knew it was all leading to Moriarty. He could imagine that by now Sherlock was already on the search, but the real question was, how close was he to getting rescued?

He bowed his head against his chest and moaned softly. The gag made his mouth a dry wasteland, irritating and scratching against his tongue. He felt so defenseless. Unable to talk, unable to move, he was basically a sitting duck, awaiting every blow that was going to come his way.

The sound of a door slowly creaking open alerted John, telling him that he was no longer alone.

_Dammit!_

John thought to himself. He had had so much time to himself, without Moriarty, that he had begun to think that maybe he would die a death of starvation and thirst. That would be less painful than the constant visits made by Moriarty.

John slowly lifted his head to see the suede shoes appearing on the stairs. A light flicked on, illuminating the entire room, blinding John. He could still see Moriarty though. He made his way down the stairs, fixing his tailored suit casually, and went straight to John, standing in front of the bound man.

"Hello my dear Watson." a broad smile was spread across his lips. "And how is my little guest on this very special night?"

John glared at him, unable to say anything to him.

"What's wrong Johnny? Cat got your tongue?" he laughed smugly and circled his chair like a shark preying upon its bait.

Moriarty stopped suddenly behind John and put both hands on his shoulders lightly massaging him. He rubbed lightly, growing rougher with his strokes until he knew it was painful. But that didn't stop him. He dug his thumb into the soft scar tissue in John's shoulder than, knowing exactly where the bullet wound was. Moriarty pressed his finger deep into John's shoulder, making John emit a strangled groan of pain.

"Tell me, what does it feel like to be friends with a emotionless prick like Sherlock? Must be real tedious work on your part to not crack under frustration with him." Moriarty shoved his fingers into the scar until John was clearly in pain and tried to move away.

Moriarty smiled brighter as the smile he held before never faded from his face. He went back before John to see a look that could kill him. It was a look that John had never before given to anyone. It was a look of hatred, filled with rage and the intent on killing this man before him.

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair as much as he possibly could, keeping a favored check on his throbbing shoulder. Moriarty than touched his face gently, caressing his fingers over the planes of his cheeks, and then over his swollen mouth. John didn't flinch, instead he let Moriarty enjoy what ever sick game he wanted, as long as it was over soon.

"Don't worry John, once I'm finished with you, Sherlock will get to experience everything I have done to you, ten-fold."

John thrashed against the ropes than, he fought harder than he had before, making the scars in his wrists reopen and bleed again.

Moriarty had pleasure in seeing this. John started cursing from behind the cloth, the words muffled , but he didn't care. He hated this son of a bitch! He screamed through the gag at Moriarty.

Jim, pleased with John's reaction, clapped in response. "There's a good doggie!" Moriarty tugged at the cloth between John's teeth and yanked it downward, below his chin.

As soon as the cloth was removed, John stopped all together. He didn't utter a word, or make any sound. Instead he just stared aimlessley at Moriarty, with a murderous intent gleaming in his eyes. He felt so angry, humiliated, and all at once, a little afraid. But somehow his tough facade remained strong. It suprised him.

"So," Moriarty started, getting closer to John, "what did you have to say to me?"

John muttered something inaudible under his breath. He said it so low that even if Moriarty was standing right on top of him, he still would not have heard.

Moriarty moved closer, his face inches from John's now, making him extremely uncomfortable. His lifeless eyes stared into his.

"Don't you dare touch Sherlock." he growled his voice deathly low.

Moriarty smiled brightly, his grin taking up his entire face. He was seeming to enjoy this little game of his. A little too much if you asked John. It made him even more uncomfortable in his situation.

"It is truly remarkable how you pick up for him. Especially when you have no way of stopping me. By the time Sherlock finds you, you will be a lifeless corpse, wallowing in your own blood."

John looked slightly away from him.

Moriarty stepped away from John but remained in front of him. "Don't you worry your little head Johnny. In the end, Sherlock will know exactly what happened to you by example. He will feel every ounce of pain you will feel, but I will make sure his death will be more painful."

"Shut the hell up!" John screamed, "You will NOT touch him!"

The innocent look in Moriarty's eyes slowly faded. His already blackened eyes, seemed to grow darker, his stare sending John into the abyss. For a quick second, he saw a glimmer of hate flash across his face, one of murder, and blood, but most of all death.

That was when Moriarty fisted his hands tightly, and swung his hand at John without any warning. His fist connected with the side of his face, making his head swing back violently.

"You are in no position to yell at me!" Moriarty yelled, and was taken aback at his outburst. A wisp of his hair was dangling in front of his face by his swift hit to John's face. Moriarty stood up stright then, and straightened his suit. He fixed his hair by smoothing it back with his hands, neatly pushing the hair down on his head.

John bent his head down, feeling defeated again. He closed his eyes in pain as he felt his warm blood trickle down his cheek from an open wound he had sustained. Again, it wasn't a bad injury, one he could deal with, but it didn't stop the pulsating pain away.

"You will not touch him!" John said darkly.

Moriarty grabbed John's chin between his fingers and brought his head up to meet his eyes. "Pardon my hearing darling, but what did you say to me?"

John pulled his face away from his grasp and let his eyes remain on Moriarty. "I said," John said his voice dead-panned, "you will not touch him, you son of a bitch!"

Out of nowhere, another fist came flying at his face, this time making direct contact with his nose. He immediatly saw stars, and was faintly aware that he screamed. He heard an ear-splitting crack, and felt nothing but bone cracking pain in his face.

John opened his eyes, unaware that he closed them in the first place, the edges of his vision blurred at the edges as he held onto consciousness. Blood poured out of his broken nose and down his face. He could taste the copper in his mouth, and spit it out in disgust, only to have more blood from his nose dribble into his mouth.

"You see what you made me do."

John's breathing was labored. He sucked in air through his mouth as blood continued to cascade down his face. He coughed up the blood in his mouth and rolled his tongue over his blood stained teeth.

Moriarty pulled a pocket handkercheif out and brought it to John's nose. John flinched back.

"If you want to play that way, then fine." Moriarty tucked the cloth back in his pocket and back handed John across the face. More blood than before gushed from his nose.

"Wh-wha-why are you doing this?" John stuttered as the crimson liquid went down his face.

Moriarty lightly rubbed his hand over John's cheek, and cupped his face in his palm. "My dear Watson, I thought I already told you."

"Bu-but why?"

"I enjoy a good game, and you, you are quite a challenging one at that. I'm enjoying this. This little game of ours."

He let go of John's face then. John let his head droop against his chest. The blood from his cheek and nose making it's way onto his shirt. Moriarty all the while took his phone out again, flipping the camera on. Without him knowing, Moriarty took another picture of John,

"Well! Would you look at the time!" Moriarty joked, "I better be off. So nice of us to have a little talk, don't you think?"

Moriarty started to go up the stairs, taking in the look of John with much ease. Oh, did he have plans to come for him. This would be fun. And watching Sherlock struggle would be all too easy. He took one last look before he left John completely alone again, and smiled. He left, leaving John to deal with the insurmountable pain he was dealing with.

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**Hope you enjoyed. Tell me what you think, and hang in there until next time.**


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